Bittersweet Love Affair
by Belle Walker
Summary: Dennis gets a second chance with his first love. Inspired by the Booker episode titled "Reunion".
1. Prologue

"Hey, Dennis," Suzanne Dunne greeted as her boss and favorite partner-in-crime approached her desk. "Did you happen to read the newspaper this morning?"

"No. Why?"

"Then I guess you haven't seen the obits yet, either?"

Dennis resisted a sigh of impatience. "Who died, Suzanne?" he asked, reluctant to play along.

She gave him a grave look, pursing her lips together and raising her eyebrows slightly. She handed him a folded up section of newspaper. "The name Jeff Ferris ring any bells?" she asked significantly, already knowing it would.

The name caught his full attention. "Jeff Ferris? Donna's husband?" He grabbed the paper and scanned his eyes over it quickly. "Damn it," he cursed softly.

"Funeral's the day after tomorrow," Suzanne informed him quietly, appreciating the levity of the matter. "I already got you the day off."

"Thanks, Suzanne." Dennis gave her a half-smile and retreated to his office, closing the door.

He dropped the newspaper onto his desk and stared for a moment at the black-and-white photograph of his now-deceased high school rival.

He picked it back up, tore Jeff's obituary from the rest of the page, folded it and poked it into his pocket.


	2. Chapter 1

She hadn't even realized he was there until she felt a pair of hands rest gently on her shoulders from behind. She glanced at one of the ungloved hands, then turned her head to look up at the solemn face of Dennis Booker.

He was still just as gorgeous as ever. He stood almost a whole foot taller than her, his thick dark hair twitching rebelliously in the moderately chilled breeze. A small silver hoop adorned one earlobe, giving a slight bad-boy contrast to his long black wool overcoat.

Dennis looked steadily back at Donna's reddened eyes. He swallowed a lump in his throat, wanting to pull her into his arms, to hold her and comfort her and just plain protect her.

But that wouldn't have been very appropriate at her husband's funeral, so Dennis only squeezed her shoulders in silent support before letting his hands fall away.

There were a lot of people present. Dennis recognized several faces from their old high school days…many friends who'd loved Jeff Ferris, and Dennis Booker felt like a fraud standing among them at the funeral of his old adversary.

But no one paid attention to him. The burial proceeded in traditional fashion, and Booker stood respectfully waiting until it was over.

He'd always been uncomfortable at funerals. It wasn't the sadness he hated; it was the awkwardness he felt at being around other people as they wept openly for those whom they'd lost.

As if she could sense his discomfort, Donna discreetly slipped her slender hand loosely into his palm.

Her touch grounded him, and he felt a little bit guilty at the contact. Like they were cheating on Jeff, or something.

No, it was innocent. A comforting touch between longtime friends. Nothing more.

They were lowering the coffin into the ground now. Donna let go of Dennis' hand to step forward and release a handful of dirt into the hole.

Others followed, and Jeff was buried.

Dennis looked at the newly covered grave, an uneasy feeling in his gut. It wasn't that he'd miss Jeff——quite the contrary, it was no secret that he'd despised the other man ever since they were in high school.

It just wasn't supposed to be this way for Donna. She hadn't even been married to the guy for a whole year yet. She was too young to be a widow.

Dennis watched as she received hugs and condolences from several of the people dressed in black, and then she slowly made her way back to his side.

"Everyone's meeting back at my house," she told him in a voice that impressed him with her steadiness. "Will you come?"

"Yeah, of course," Dennis accepted readily.

Donna parted her lips again, as if she wanted to say something else, but changed her mind. "Thank you for being here," she offered instead. "I didn't think you'd want to come."

He didn't answer that, but attempted a small smile for her sake. He lifted a hand to brush his thumb against her cheek, but she stepped away from his touch after only a second of contact.

"Sorry." He dropped his hand into his coat pocket.

Donna looked down at the ground, putting her hands into her own coat pockets. She took a deep breath and looked back up at Dennis. "I'll see you later?" she asked again to make sure he'd stop by her house for the wake.

"I'll be there," he confirmed. He took a few steps backward, heading for his car, and turned around only after she too started to walk away.

He sat in his car, thinking, waiting until the last of the other cars had left the cemetery.

What was he doing here? Supporting a friend? Hanging onto a fantasy of getting Donna back? Or proving to himself once and for all that they just weren't meant to be together?

Dennis exhaled loudly, reaching forward to start the car's engine. He remembered the way to her house, though he hadn't been there in well over a year.

He was, understandably, the very last to arrive. He didn't knock, but let himself in through the front door and tried halfheartedly to blend with the crowd of people.

He didn't see Donna anywhere.

He meandered away from the crowd, through the living room, past the dining room, in one kitchen door and out the other. All around him were pictures, trinkets, and other things to remind him of the life Donna had shared with Jeff, instead of with him.

The back door was a welcome escape, and he wasted no time in turning the knob to feel the cool air hit his face.

At the sound of his footsteps on the back porch, a female figure sitting on the steps turned her head to see the newcomer.

His hand automatically went to his pocket for a cigarette just as his brain reminded him he'd given up that habit long ago. Empty-handed, Dennis sat down beside her.

"How are you doing?"

Donna shrugged one shoulder, staring out into the darkness. "Okay…I guess."

He hesitated to put his arm around her. He wasn't sure if she'd be receptive to his embrace, and he didn't want to confuse either of them by bringing old feelings back to the surface once again.

His hand came up to rub gently at her shoulder, and to his surprise Donna didn't pull away or tell him to stop.

"What happened to Jeff?" Dennis asked gently, thinking it might help her to talk about it.

"Police…found him Tuesday night," she answered. "His car was upside down in a ditch. They said…he must have run off the road and wrecked it. They said it was just an accident, but…" she trailed off softly.

His hand tightened on her shoulder, and Dennis leaned in to look at her face. "But what?" he prompted. "You think someone else caused the wreck?"

"I don't know," Donna answered. "The police couldn't find anything. But Jeff was a good driver, Dennis. He wouldn't have just run off the road without something causing him to."

"A dog in the road?" Dennis suggested. "Deer, maybe?"

The look on her face told him that she suspected something else.

"Donna?"

"I think someone did it on purpose."

"Why?"

"Jeff was taking a couple of business classes at the college," she explained. "He wanted to expand the repair shop, you know? Bring in more business. But he started having problems with some guys in one of his classes."

"What kind of problems?"

She gave Dennis a knowing look. "Said he stepped on someone's ego, but he wouldn't tell me much about it. All he would really say was that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop…like he was afraid they were going to do something to him. And now he's——" she swallowed, unable to say the word 'dead'.

"Did you tell that to the police?" Dennis couldn't help asking.

"Of course I did. But they couldn't find anything to prove it."

"Did Jeff mention any specific names?" Booker reigned in his line of questioning, aware that their conversation was starting to sound like an interrogation.

Donna thought back. "One was named Porter…and the other was either Willis or Williams, or something like that."

"Why don't you let me look into it?" he offered genuinely. If nothing else, he could at least try to give her better closure on her husband's death. "Maybe I can find out what really happened."

"You'd do that for Jeff?" Donna asked, surprised.

"No," Dennis answered honestly. "But I'd do it for you."

Donna searched his intense dark eyes with her tear-bright blue ones. "Thank you," she whispered. She broke eye contact and leaned her head back against his strong shoulder, grateful for the solid support.

Dennis finally allowed his arm to slide around her. He pulled her close against his chest, pressing a kiss to her temple before resting his cheek on top of her head.


	3. Chapter 2

It was unusual for a community college to admit a new student after autumn classes had already started, but with a little flirting over the phone and a lot of BS for the admissions lady, Booker managed to pull it off.

He supposed he could have just told the truth about why he needed to join the classes, but where was the fun in that? Besides, they might have decided he was some kind of threat to their school if they knew he was only there to hunt for someone.

By Monday afternoon, 'Dennis Bowman' was successfully enrolled in each of Jeff's three business classes. Tuesday would be his first day of the manhunt.

Under the guise of working an official outside case, he'd told his boss at Teshima that he'd be out of the office for the day.

Chick Sterling didn't need to know that Booker was doing this whole investigation free of charge for an old girlfriend.

Donna had given him two names to look for. But since it wasn't known which of Jeff's three business classes contained those two suspects, Dennis had to scope out all three of them.

Business Finance was first in the morning, followed by Business Ethics. Marketing Solutions was an hour after lunch.

Dennis dressed the part of aspiring young businessman to blend with the other entrepreneurs in the classes. Slacks, polo shirt and loafers replaced his usual attire of jeans, muscle-shirt and leather jacket. He left the small silver loop in one earlobe, liking the subtle edge it gave his otherwise bland appearance.

He looked in the mirror, cocking an eyebrow. How did people not die of boredom, dressing like this?

He pulled his car into the college parking lot, taking an unreserved spot. After a stop in the Admissions office, he had his 3-class schedule in hand along with a map of the campus.

The first stop was Business Finance. According to Donna, Jeff had been attending the 9:30 class, so that was the one Dennis made sure he had been enrolled in too.

Business Finance turned out to be a bust right off the bat. Only nine students enrolled, and none of them answered to the names Donna had told him.

Figuring that maybe they were just skipping that day, Booker turned to a small, skinny young guy at a neighboring desk.

"Excuse me," Dennis whispered.

The guy looked at him, then adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "Yes?"

"Is this the entire class?" Booker gestured one finger in a circle.

The guy glanced around the room. "Pretty much, yes."

"Nobody's missing?" Dennis persisted.

Patiently, the guy answered, "Well, Jeff's not here…but he hasn't been since last Tuesday."

Finally, a mention of Donna's husband. "Who's Jeff?" Booker played dumb.

The skinny guy gave him a look of genuine ignorance. "Apparently, a dropout," he whispered with finality, ending the conversation.

Well, it was a start, even though it only confirmed the already-known fact that Jeff had been last seen at the college on the same day he'd been found dead in the ditch.

But this guy didn't look like a murderer. He looked like a mild-mannered accountant, completely at home in this dull business accounting class.

The rest of the hour passed so slowly that Dennis was almost positive the clock was inching backward. If he'd been sitting by the door, he would have just made a break for it when the teacher's back was turned.

Dennis stared at that clock on the wall, his eyes beginning to cross from the concentration. One thing was sure…there wasn't anything to be gained from coming back to this class tomorrow.

Maybe the next class would turn up something useful.

He made it to Business Ethics early, and chose a prime spot in the back corner from where he could observe everyone in the room.

But first, he had to give this professor the same boring "They let me enroll late" spiel that he gave the first one. Maybe he'd change his story for the third class.

The other students began to filter in, and one person in particular stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the dark-haired guy sitting at the far corner desk.

Dennis took in the stunned look of recognition in Tom Hanson's expression, and a grin spread across Booker's own face.

Oh, this could be fun.

But Tom took a seat far away at the front of the room, giving him the obvious cold shoulder.

"We'll pick up from yesterday's discussion," Professor Miller began. "But first, we'd like to welcome a newcomer, Mr. Dennis Bowman."

So much for keeping a low profile.

Dennis gave the class a friendly smile and pleasant wave from his corner in the back. "Hi."

Miller turned to the chalkboard at the front of the class. Picking up a stick of white chalk, he began to write.

"'Rules were made to be broken'," he read his sentence out loud and turned to face the class. "Who here agrees with that statement?"

Nobody spoke up. Miller paced a few steps, stopping in front of Tom. "Mr. Harper, what do you think?"

Tom sighed inwardly at being singled out. "Rules are there for a reason. Without 'em, you got nothing but chaos."

"Anyone disagree?"

Dennis couldn't resist; he raised his hand.

"Mr. Bowman," the professor called on him.

"I disagree," he said, boldly ignoring the look Tom was giving him out of the corner of his eye.

"Please, explain," Miller invited.

Dennis cleared his throat, thinking up something good just for the fun of it. "What if the rules are crap? What if they're only there to get in your way? To keep you from success?" He stared at Tom, impishly challenging him. "I think rules are meant to be broken."

"Mr. Harper, care to refute?"

Tom took a personal jab at Dennis, turning around fully in his seat to glare at the other man. "Maybe those who _break_ all the rules are really just afraid they'll never _measure up_ to them."

"Ooh," a murmur echoed here and there.

"We've got a debate, folks," the professor said enthusiastically.

"Idiot," Tom muttered, facing forward again.

Booker shrugged innocently, crossing his arms and leaning forward with his elbows on the desk top. "Well, this is a lot more exciting than Business Finance. I almost fell asleep in that class."

A few chuckles rippled through the class, but nobody else stepped into the debate.

"So," Professor Miller addressed the room again. "In the world of business ethics and rules…who's right? Who's wrong?" He looked at the entire group. "What if they're both right?"

Finally someone else joined in. "How could they both be right?"

"They can both be right, Mr. Jackson, if you consider _some_ rules to be the roadblock to progress." The professor grinned at the class and added, "Unfortunately for Mr. Bowman, we _do_ need rules and ethics to follow where business practices are concerned in our great United States of America."

Some students laughed, and Dennis smiled placidly.

Class went on, more interesting than the first one, but still Booker hadn't turned up his two suspects.

"Psst," he caught the attention of the girl sitting in front of him.

She turned her head to see what he wanted.

"Hey," he whispered, leaning forward. "Is anybody in this class named Porter, Williams, or Willis?"

"No," she whispered back with a shake of her head. "Why?"

"No reason. Thanks."

Another waste of time, just like the first class was.

Dennis sighed. If Marketing Solutions turned up nothing, he'd be out of leads already.


	4. Chapter 3

Booker's third and final class wasn't until 2:00 in the afternoon, so he had a couple of hours to kill in the meantime.

He sat in his car, thinking.

He was disappointed in the lack of results thus far. His two suspects had to be in the third class, unless Donna was wrong about who to look for…

Dennis closed his eyes, tipping his head back against the headrest on the driver's seat of his car. He conjured up an image of Donna in his mind, smiling to himself as he imagined her sweet voice in his ears.

They'd been fifteen when they met. She tutored him in Algebra, and he'd taught her what love was. They were inseparable for two years, until suddenly they were ripped apart by Dennis' own doing. He had made the worst mistake of his life when he torched Jeff Ferris' car in the school parking lot halfway through his senior year.

Dennis Booker wasn't a criminal; he was just a seventeen-year-old kid desperate to keep some other guy from stealing his girl. But his lapse in judgment had sent Dennis straight to juvenile lockup for three months, and Donna into the arms of the very guy he had been trying to keep away from her.

He got out of juvenile hall when he turned eighteen, but the damage was done and he returned home to find that Donna wasn't his anymore. Making things worse for him, her parents had gotten a court order to keep him away permanently.

Dennis sighed, opening his eyes.

Those high school years seemed so long ago, and yet so recent at the same time. And now, ironically, events were almost reversing themselves.

Now Jeff was the one who was gone, and Dennis was the one left to pick up the pieces of Donna's broken heart.

Needing to clear his head, Booker started the car. He went for lunch at a small café near the college, then called his secretary at Teshima from his car phone.

"Dennis Booker's office," a female voice came through the line.

"Suzanne, it's me."

"Hey, how's our college boy?"

"Getting nowhere," Dennis responded seriously. "First two classes turned up nothing. I'm putting my hopes on number three."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed," she promised.

"Thanks." He smiled, though his assistant couldn't see it through the phone. "Hey, um…Donna didn't happen to call, or anything…did she?"

"Nope," Suzanne answered. "Was she supposed to?"

"No, I just thought…maybe she might have."

"Sorry, Romeo."

"Yeah. Okay, thanks." He popped the carphone's handset back into its cradle between the two bucket seats.

He drove back to the college campus and parked in a different spot than before.

God, he hated waiting around. Sometimes he thought he'd rather face a room full of gunmen than wait around for something to happen.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel a moment, then checked his wristwatch. Still half an hour to go.

He puffed his cheeks out in a breath and grabbed the campus map he'd been given earlier that day.

Maybe he'd go check out the library.

He sauntered aimlessly through the aisles and rows and shelves, picking up a book here, thumbing through it, setting it down there.

Finally, he went to the 2:00 Marketing Solutions class.

Instead of choosing the far back corner like he did with the previous classroom, Dennis sat down at a desk in the very center of the room.

The desks in this class were actually tables, twice the width of a normal desk with two chairs placed under each.

Dennis watched the other seats fill up, looking at each and every face that entered the room. This was his last shot at finding his suspects here.

"That's Jeff's seat."

Dennis looked up at the face that accompanied the voice. "I'm sorry?"

The blonde-haired girl pointed at the seat Dennis was occupying. "That's Jeff's seat," she repeated neutrally. "We usually share this table."

"Will Jeff be coming to claim it?" he asked innocently, giving the girl a friendly smile.

She blushed, smiling back. "Probably not, actually. He's skipped a whole week of class now."

Apparently his classmates didn't know he was dead, Booker thought wryly.

"Well, my name's not Jeff," he began playfully, laying on the charm. "But I'll still let you sit at my table if you want."

The girl gave a small laugh, playing along. "What a gentleman, inviting me to sit in my own seat."

He grinned shamelessly. "Dennis Bowman," he introduced himself with his undercover name, holding a hand out for her to shake.

She accepted it. "Gina Blackwell." She sat down in the chair beside him, setting her books on her half of the table.

"So," Dennis cut to the chase. "Is Jeff your boyfriend or something?" If the guy had been cheating on Donna with this girl…well, Jeff would be lucky that he was already dead.

"Oh, god no," Gina answered in a put-off tone. "No, he's just a good partner to work with in class. A lot of good ideas in his brain."

Dennis nodded. "Gotcha."

"What about you?" Gina asked, as if she and Dennis were great pals already. "Got a girlfriend?"

She was flirting.

Well, Dennis had started it…now he would finish it.

He gave a casual shrug. "Sometimes."

"Got one now?"

He let her down easy, although it was a lie. "Yeah, I do."

But she didn't appear disappointed. "Fair enough," Gina accepted easily. "So what brings Dennis Bowman to Marketing Solutions class two months into the semester?"

This girl didn't beat around the bush. Dennis kind of appreciated that; if she had something useful to say he wouldn't have to pry it out of her like he usually did with people.

He'd also have to be careful about not revealing anything to her, if she was as friendly with everyone as she was with him. He didn't need his cover blown already.

"Just exploring options," was all Dennis said in response to her question.

The instructor began the class, but Gina and Dennis continued their sporadic conversation in whispers.

Adopting a casual tone, Booker changed the subject. "So, Gina…who's who in this class?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I like to know who my classmates are," he explained with a grin. "And you've been here longer than I have…I'm sure you know everyone by now."

"Okay, well…um…" she pointed at one occupied desk across the room and whispered, "That's the McCarthy sisters over there; they're trying to get clients for their dog-walking business, but they haven't a clue how…hence the need for this class. Behind us is Brian Rogers, who's the newest employee at his father's architecture firm..."

She glanced at the other half of the room, apparently picking out the 'important' people and skipping the rest. "Oh, Jimmy Wills and Frank Porter own that new little restaurant on Third Street."

Wills…not Willis or Williams. Jimmy Wills. And Frank Porter. There they were.

Gina went on with a few more names, but Dennis secretly tuned her out.

He'd found his two suspects. But it was too early to jump on anything just yet.

For now, he'd only observe them.


	5. Chapter 4

Dennis unlocked his apartment door and stepped inside, closing the heavy steel slab and flipping a single deadbolt.

He didn't bother with the other five locks running up the edge of the door, since they hadn't held up well anyway the last time his door was knocked off its hinges.

He pulled a boxed TV dinner from the freezer and prepared it in the microwave. Then he settled down on the couch with his dinner and a paperback book.

It didn't take long to finish off the dinner, and he propped his feet up on the coffee table, leaning back to continue reading his book leisurely.

A pounding on the door startled him. He set his book face-down on the couch and stood, getting halfway to the door when the visitor pounded again.

Booker opened the door to find the last person he'd have expected to see there. He'd almost forgotten about their run-in at the college earlier that day.

"Here to reminisce about old times?" he asked his visitor with a smart-aleck smirk.

"Stow it, Booker." Tom Hanson barged in uninvited.

"Come on in," Dennis said belatedly to his back, shutting the door.

Hanson walked to the middle of the room before turning to face the other man. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You're the one standing in my livingroom," Dennis replied smoothly. "What the hell are _you_ doing?"

"At the college, genius," Tom clarified in a hard tone.

But Dennis was deliberately evasive. "I can't take a few classes without needing police approval? Last time I checked, this was a free country."

"For one thing, you're enrolled under a false name, Dennis _Bowman_," Tom scoffed. "Number two, you joined a class called 'Business Ethics'. You wouldn't know ethics from a hole in the ground."

"Maybe that's why I'm taking the class."

"Listen, wiseass," Tom matched Booker's unfriendly glare, pointing a finger at his chest. "I want to know who you're investigating. Either you tell me, or I'll pound your face."

Dennis brushed off the threat, leaning into Tom's personal space. "What's the matter, Hanson? Afraid I'm gonna snag someone before you do? Bad ol' Booker pinches a scumbag before good little Officer Tommy can swoop in and save the day?"

Tom gave a humorless, impatient laugh. "I warned you, man." He hauled back his fist and clocked Booker in the jaw.

Dennis stumbled back half a step, but retaliated with a satisfying punch of his own to split Tom's bottom lip.

At a standoff, they stared at each other, neither bothering to mask their hostility.

They had almost become something close to friends once upon a time, when Dennis had sacrificed his police badge to clear Tom of murder and get him out of prison. But now it looked like they were back to square one in their distrust of each other.

Booker softened first, hooking his fingers into his jeans pockets and adopting a more casual pose. "Look…unless your guy's name is Frank Porter or Jimmy Wills, you got nothing to worry about."

"I'm after Phil Jackson," Tom told him, a bit calmer now. "Hardcore heroin that killed a kid. I've been on this guy for a month now. I swear, Booker, if you mess this up, I'll come after you. For real."

"Relax, man. I got no beef with Phil Jackson," Dennis assured him. "I want Frank and Jimmy for murder, and as long as your guy isn't involved too, I don't care what you do with him."

Tom accepted that. "Okay. Just so we have an understanding."

Dennis agreed peacefully. "We have an understanding."

"Sorry about the jaw," Tom offered in afterthought.

Booker lifted a hand to his sore flesh. "No, you're not."

Hanson briefly narrowed his eyes at him. "You're right…I'm not." He sauntered to the door.


	6. Chapter 5

"Hey, aren't you supposed to be in class?" his secretary asked in lieu of a greeting. "What'd you do, get suspended on the first day?"

"Ha ha," Dennis mocked. "My suspects aren't in the first two classes, so there's no point in my being there either."

Suzanne joked with a grin, "You just didn't want to lose your day job, too."

He smiled easily. "Yeah, that too."

She followed Dennis into his office. "So what's the verdict on Tweedledee and Tweedledum?"

"Well, they're in the class. Beyond that…I don't know yet." Dennis sat down at his desk. "It's not easy to find very much when you're laying low in a college class that's only an hour and a half long each day."

"Well, don't lay too low, Sherlock, or you'll only get tripped on."

"Thank you, that really helps," he answered sarcastically.

"No problemo." Suzanne turned on her heel, then stuck her head back into his doorway. "Oh, I almost forgot…big boss man wants to see you."

He sighed. "Alright, thanks." He got back out of his chair to go meet with his boss.

The meeting with Chick Sterling was blessedly brief, just an insurance claim he was told to investigate before Teshima would dish out a single penny.

Dennis worked on that for most of the day with Suzanne's assistance, and the time flew by until he had to leave for his second day of in-plain-sight college stakeout.

"Go get 'em, Rambo," Suzanne gave him a cheerful send-off.

"I'm only watching them right now," Dennis reminded her.

"Sorry. Go get 'em…babysitter," she amended with a grin.

Dennis gave her a dryly tolerant look, grabbing his keys and jacket.

* * *

Dennis managed to finesse a few tidbits of info out of Gina Blackwell without prompting too many questions from her in return.

Jeff, it seemed, had made some unsavory remarks in class about the guys' new restaurant that they were already trying to keep in business.

"What kind of remarks?" Dennis asked with a casual air.

"Oh, you know…the usual. 'Food's crap, service sucks, all the advertising in the world couldn't help them'."

"That's pretty harsh."

"Yeah, well…Jeff seemed kind of serious in his hatred for it."

"Why's that?" Dennis pressed.

Gina shrugged. "I dunno. Why do you care? Writing an article on it?"

Dennis backed off a little. "I might," he bluffed with a grin. "Nah, I just like good gossip, that's all."

Gina looked at him doubtfully. "And a mechanic's ridicule of a restaurant is the best you can find?" She snickered in amusement. "Don't take up writing any gossip columns…you'd crash and burn."

"I'll keep that in mind."

At this point, it was all hearsay and speculation. But with a little digging, Booker was sure to come up with some hard evidence.

Dennis was itching to find out more, but he knew better than to press Gina further and blow his cover too soon.

Maybe it was a mistake to buddy-up to this girl. Gina was sharper than he'd expected, and unhesitatingly inquisitive enough herself to match him question-for-question.

He needed to get closer to Porter and Wills themselves and see what he could dig up.

Being back undercover like this, playing the role of student once again, made Dennis Booker think back to his days at Jump Street.

He missed working with those guys. Hoffs, Ioki, Penhall…hell, he even missed Hanson a little bit.

Maybe he was overdue for a visit.


	7. Chapter 6

He paused at the inside entrance to the converted chapel, taking in the view.

It was pretty much the same as he remembered it. The old-fashioned red-and-white Coca-Cola dispenser, the makeshift holding cell in the corner with the uncomfortable little cot, Harry Ioki's treasured posters of James Dean and Bruce Lee still hanging on a wall.

No changes of any real significance, except the desk over there that had once been his had a different nameplate on it now.

The place was quiet. A handful of young officers were scattered at seemingly random spots throughout the room, and their various aspects of paperwork created no more noise than pencil scratches and typewriter keys.

All these faces were new, and they paid no attention to him. There was only one other person there he recognized.

Tom Hanson was at his own desk, his wooden chair tipped back against the brick-and-plaster wall on two legs. He appeared to be snoozing.

Booker silently strode over and kicked one leg of Hanson's chair, causing it to crash back down on all four legs.

Tom's eyes popped open and his arms flailed out to the side comically as his chair rudely hit the floor.

"Smooth," Dennis snickered, towering over him.

"Hey, what happened to you today?" Tom asked, rubbing at one eye and glaring up at him with the other. "Bust your guys already?"

"I dropped the classes they weren't in," Dennis answered simply. "Your cover's still safe there. Unless you've already blown it yourself, that is," he couldn't help but add with a grin.

"You're real funny," Tom returned a bit sourly. "So what are you doing here? Shouldn't you have homework to do, or something?"

Dennis shrugged. "I just kinda missed this place, you know? It's been a while."

Tom could understand that. "Well…pull up a chair," he invited with a small spark of hospitality. "Hang out for a while."

Booker took a seat at the table that sat back-to-back with Hanson's desk. "How's everybody?"

"Fine. Harry's on vacation. Judy's having fun infiltrating a pack of cheerleaders. And Doug's doing a McQuaid Brothers stint all by himself."

"Wait, I thought the McQuaid Brothers retired."

Hanson gave a halfway nod. "Tom McQuaid did…but Penhall's still kind of attached to his half of the brothership."

"How come I never got to be a McQuaid?" Dennis wanted to know.

Tom scoffed. "You wanted to be a McQuaid?"

Dennis grinned. "Yeah, man. You and I could've passed for brothers, knockin' heads and stirrin' up trouble."

"Booker, you did that anyway."

"Yeah, I did," he agreed unashamedly. "You remember my portable electric chair?"

Hanson's smile vanished. "That thing wasn't funny," he said, pointing a finger in accusation.

"Are you kidding me? It was brilliant!" Dennis objected.

Tom scowled at him. "I changed my mind; you're not welcome here. Get out."

Dennis only leaned back in his chair with a grin, propping his feet up on the desk. "See? Just like old times."

Hanson frowned at him a moment longer, then relaxed with a quiet chuckle. "You're a real piece of work, Book."

Booker twitched an eyebrow in silent admission.

"Outta my way!" an irritated voice echoed in the stairwell and then the large form of Doug Penhall charged into the chapel.

"Hey, Doug," Tom greeted his usual partner. "How was your date with Trisha last night? That's…what, your fourth date with her?"

"Fifth," Doug growled.

"Fifth," Tom echoed. "A new record for Penhall," he cracked to Dennis.

"She cooks. _From scratch_," Doug informed him with a look of horror as he passed by. "She's ruining my love of junk food."

Dennis laughed at Doug's retreating back. "What's wrong with him?"

Hanson shot him a grin. "He's freaking out 'cause he finally met the perfect woman." His voice rose in pitch with the end of the sentence so Doug would be sure to hear him.

Almost to his own desk, Doug halted, turned, and stalked all the way back to Tom's work area.

"I'm telling you, man…I'm in _big trouble_ here." He grabbed an empty chair and sat backward on it to face his friends. "She's so laidback about everything. So…not uptight."

Tom gave him a strange look. "And that's a bad thing?"

Doug looked at him wide-eyed. "It's a terrible thing," he said seriously. "I even _tested_ her."

"What?" Dennis laughed.

"I tested her," Doug repeated. "You guys remember when Dorothy kicked me out because I took apart my motorcycle all over the kitchen table?"

Tom and Dennis nodded.

"Well, I did the same thing to Trisha. But I did it on purpose this time, to see how she'd react." Doug explained, "I left big, dirty, _greasy_ parts on the table. Even put some on the chairs for good measure. She comes over for dinner; I say 'Sorry, my table's buried under my bike'."

He looked back and forth between Tom and Dennis. "Guess what she says about that?"

They shrugged.

Doug leaned toward them both, dropping his voice intensely and grinding out, "She says…'That's okay. _We can picnic in the livingroom_'."

"She didn't care about your crap all over the table?" Booker stared at him, not the least bit sympathetic to the plight of Doug's love-life. "You've found the woman of every man's _dreams_, and you're _complaining_ about it?! Penhall, if I had my gun, I'd shoot you right now."

"Doug, why don't you just admit you're in love with this girl, and be happy?" Tom demanded.

"Cause she's perfect," Doug growled. "And any time something's perfect, that's when I screw it up."

"Then don't screw it up!" Tom exclaimed logically.

Doug harrumphed, getting up from the chair. "Easier said than done."

"From the sound of it," Dennis quipped lightly. "He _can't_ screw it up."


	8. Chapter 7

All it took for Booker to get in with his suspects on the third day of class was a little bit of well-placed and completely insincere praise about one of their marketing projects.

"Although I heard someone else in this class didn't like your stuff very much," he added, referring to what Gina had told him earlier.

"I'm the brains," Porter ignored the reference to Jeff's attitude and only boasted in response to Dennis' admiration. "He's the bank."

Wills narrowed his eyes at his partner. "Nice way of putting it, thanks."

"I'm not saying you're dumb," Frank quickly amended. "I'm just saying you've got more _money_ than you do _experience_."

Jimmy reluctantly accepted the backward apology. "I guess."

"Let's see your project, Bowman," Porter suggested.

But the simple fact was that Dennis hadn't bothered with any actual classwork. It wasn't like he was really a legitimate student there to learn marketing strategy.

So he tried to get out of it.

"Uh…actually, my dog ate it."

Frank and Jimmy stared at him a moment before busting out in laughter.

"Hey, it's alright, man," Jimmy excused him with pity in his tone. "If your stuff's really that lame, you don't have to show us."

"I didn't say it was lame," Dennis objected. "I said it was Spike's lunch."

"Whatever you say."

Booker frowned as the two turned their backs to him again, putting their attention back on their current class assignment.

They readily accepted a compliment, but they weren't biting the lines attached to Jeff's supposed criticism of their efforts.

It was time to step things up. He'd have to bring Ferris' name directly into the conversation and see how they react to that.

Tomorrow he'd check out their restaurant and see what things he could weasel out there.

Tonight, he would pay a visit to someone else.

* * *

Donna Ferris shivered, pulling her jacket closer around herself. The garage was freezing.

She picked up another cardboard box in her arms, leaving the garage and heading back into the warm house.

She set the box on the coffeetable, stripped off her jacket, and settled down to go through more of her deceased husband's old things.

Donna pulled a small handful of papers from the top layer. The newspaper clippings Jeff had saved of his sister Andrea's death.

Dennis had helped them solve that tragedy years after it had happened.

But there was no point in keeping those newspaper clippings. She put them in the trash can.

Next in the box was a few large hardback books. High school yearbooks.

She set them aside on the couch, thinking maybe she'd look through them later.

Donna picked up a third handful of items just as the doorbell rang. So she dropped them back into the box to answer the door.

"Dennis," she greeted.

"Hi," he answered with a smile. "This isn't a bad time, is it? I probably should have called first…"

"No," she responded immediately. "No, it's fine. Come in."

"Thanks." He stepped inside.

"I was just going through some old stuff," Donna explained the mess on the livingroom coffeetable.

"Find anything good?"

She shrugged. "Just some things I thought Jeff had thrown out a long time ago."

Her house was warm. Dennis removed his coat, hanging it on the rack by the door.

He sat down with her on the couch, keeping a respectable one-foot space between them. Even now, he still found himself fighting feelings of attraction for her.

He cleared his throat. "I found those two guys you told me about at the college."

Donna fixed her attention on his face. "And?"

"I joined their class to get closer. It's going a little bit slow, but I think there's something there."

She was disappointed that there wasn't more to tell. Something like 'Yes, I caught them; they confessed everything'.

Something to at least give her more closure.

Donna put a lightness into her voice, disguising her disappointment. "You came all the way over here just to tell me that?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I just wanted to see you."

She looked down almost shyly, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"What's all this?" Dennis questioned, reaching past her to pick up a large hardback book laying on the couch.

"Yearbooks," she answered. "I came across them while I was going through some of Jeff's things in the garage."

There were four, one for each year of high school.

"Want to look at them?" Donna invited.

Dennis nodded. "Sure." He shifted closer on the couch.

"Might as well start at the beginning." She pulled one from the bottom of the short stack, setting the others on the coffeetable.

She opened the book and laid half of it on his lap, and they turned a few pages together.

"The freshman winter dance," Donna pointed out one spread, glancing up at Dennis.

"That was our first date," he recalled. "Not counting the previous month of your tutoring me."

She tilted her head, running a finger over the black-and-white image. "I almost went to that dance with Jeff."

"What?"

Donna gave a little laugh. "You never knew that, did you? He asked me the day right before you did."

"Then how'd you end up going with me?"

"I barely knew Jeff then. So I told him I'd think about it….but I already knew I wanted to go with you instead."

Dennis grinned. "So you waited for me to ask you."

She smiled back, an unashamed sparkle in her eye. "Yep."

His shoulder nudged hers lightly. "And you call me tricky."

"You were," she answered, turning her attention back to the book. "And I loved that about you," she added softly.

A soft smile remained on Dennis' face as his gaze lingered on hers.

"You remember our first time together?"

Her lips quirked upward again. "Of course I remember. What about it?"

"We were each other's first," he reminisced. "And I remember thinking at the time…that I hoped we'd also be each other's last."

A dimple appeared in Donna's cheek as she glanced back up. "Dennis, we were only fifteen."

"That didn't matter to me," he replied softly. "I was in love."

She looked at him seriously. "So was I."

He smiled at her, and on impulse lifted a hand to touch her cheek.

She didn't pull away from him like she usually did.

Cupping her cheek, Dennis leaned in and pressed a sweet, chase kiss to her lips.

The brief kiss caught her by surprise, but she would have been a liar if she said she didn't enjoy it.

Her small fingers rose to touch his jaw line, her thumb tracing the edge of his bottom lip almost in wonderment.

Encouraged, he dipped his head to capture her lips again. The yearbook fell to the floor but neither of them noticed.

His kiss had always had a way of making her forget everything else. She was lost in it—the warmth of his lips, the strength of his arms around her, the silky thickness of his hair under her fingers.

She was falling backward on the couch, slowly as if in a dream.

His lips were on her neck, nibbling that sensitive spot he remembered. His fingers slipped under her shirt to stroke her back, and the touch brought her crashing back to reality.

This was wrong. What about Jeff? Yes, he was gone…but she couldn't just discard the memory of him like he didn't matter to her anymore.

Dennis felt her tense, and he drew back to look at her face.

She looked guilty.

"I can't do this," Donna gasped. "I can't…"

His head was spinning, and not in a good way. Dennis released her, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he offered contritely. "I didn't mean to push…"

"No, it's just…too soon. You know?" Her eyes begged him to understand.

And he did; he understood. He wasn't happy about it, but he understood.

"Hey, it's okay," he soothed. "You're right…it's too soon."

She also sat back up, and they remained a bit awkwardly side by side.

Donna moved a finger to touch one of the large rings Dennis wore on his fingers. She voiced a request, soft and quiet. "Would you just…hold me for a little while?"

Dennis couldn't say no to that. "You bet," he answered with a gentle smile. "Come here."

Donna sank into his side, resting her cheek on his chest where she could hear his heartbeat through his shirt.

He wrapped both arms around her protectively, settling them both comfortably into her couch.

She inhaled his unique scent and closed her eyes. Peaceful sleep overtook her, and she didn't resist it.

Dennis let her sleep for a while, then gently disentangled himself without waking her up. He left her there on the couch covered with an afghan.

As for Dennis, he was struck by a mood for cold beer and a noisy atmosphere.

He found both at a small out-of-the-way bar, and from a payphone in the back he called up an old friend to meet him.

* * *

Dennis Booker stood quietly off to the side, deep in thought as he waited for Doug Penhall to line up a shot on the pool table.

"Quit thinkin' so loud," Doug complained in mock-annoyance. "You're messin' up my concentration."

His lips twitched. "Sorry."

"So what's on your mind?" Doug asked, sinking one ball. "I know you didn't call me all the way over here just so I could beat your ass at pool."

Dennis chuckled, glancing down at the floor for a second. "Doug…when Dorothy left you…how'd you get over it?"

"First, second, or tenth time?"

He shrugged. "All of 'em."

Doug walked around the table, eyeing another shot. "Well…I just told myself that if she was the one for me…she'd come back." He sunk another ball, then added with a grin, "And in the meantime, I dated other women."

"Like Trisha," Dennis remembered Doug's current girlfriend.

"Like Trisha," Doug agreed with a nod. "She's one-of-a-kind, man…she really is." He took another shot and missed, frowning at the table.

Dennis moved to take his turn. "So's Donna."

"So tell me about her. What's she like?"

He chuckled. "Well, she's uh…she's _Donna_."

"Okay…what do you like best about her?" Doug rephrased, taking a break with his beer bottle. "And if you get cheesy on my and say 'her smile', I'm gonna drop-kick you right out that door."

"Just try it, pal," Dennis replied good-naturedly. "Nah…she does have a great smile," he admitted. "But her heart's what gets me. Always has."

Doug lifted his beer bottle in reverence. "Dennis Booker, closet romantic."

"Shut up," Dennis laughed at him. More serious, he confided, "It's just…I'm trying to respect her space, you know? I mean, Jeff hasn't even been dead for two weeks. I don't want to be the rebound guy. Not even with Donna." He took a sip of his own beer, amending, "Especially not with Donna."

"So what are you going to do?" Doug questioned solemnly.

Dennis considered that. "For now, I'm gonna solve Jeff's death. After that…we'll see."


	9. Chapter 8

"Hi there, James Bond," Suzanne Dunne greeted her boss cheerfully, throwing a character name at him like she tended to do. "How goes the super-secret-spy gig?"

"Hey," Dennis objected seriously, giving a soft tug at the front of his black leather jacket. "Bond was never this cool."

Suzanne giggled. "True. How's your stakeout?" she asked again, sincerely interested.

"So far, so good."

She waited for more. "And?"

He sighed, spilling the rest. "And they've got a restaurant that Ferris apparently hated for some reason. Donna said he'd admitted to 'stepping on their egos' about something, so maybe that's what started things. I'm gonna see if I can dig anything up this morning."

"How's Donna doing?"

Dennis shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Why?"

Suzanne stared at him knowingly. "I'm not gonna have to throw you another broken-heart slumber party again, am I?"

"What?"

"Cause you know the last pity-party you had was because of Donna, too."

Dennis scoffed. "I did _not_ have a pity-party."

"You sure? 'Cause I seem to recall girly magazine quizzes, Miss America reruns, and grilled cheese. Not to mention a Sara Lee cheesecake that somehow found its way into the bag."

"Suzanne…"

"And you sittin' in your chair, moonin' over that old picture of you and Donna."

He barked a frustrated laugh. "Suzanne!" He held up two hands in surrender. "Thanks for caring, but I'm fine. Okay?"

She squinted at him a moment, considering.

"Okay?" he repeated expectantly.

She shrugged. "Okay."

"Okay," he echoed in relief.

"But if she breaks your heart this time, you're making your own grilled cheese."

He looked at her in irritation and amusement. He curled his fingers menacingly toward her, like he wanted to put them around her throat and squeeze.

She really could be just like an annoying sibling most of the time.

"So, this restaurant you're spying on," Suzanne changed the subject. "What should I wear?"

"Oh, no, no, no," he bristled at the idea of her tagging along. "You're staying here," he informed her firmly.

"Come on, Dennis," she whined at him. "Two heads are better than one."

"Read my lips, you are not going."

She mocked him, mouthing the words back obnoxiously.

He laughed at her antics. "That's real cute, Suzanne. I mean it; you're not going with me."

"Fine," she pouted.

He backed away to leave. "And you're not following me there, either," he added, knowing her penchant for openly defying him.

"Spoilsport," she muttered.

* * *

"Party of one?" the hostess inquired brightly.

But Dennis spotted Porter and Wills occupying a corner booth, sitting across from each other with several papers between them.

He turned a charming smile on the hostess. "Actually, I'm with them."

"Of course," she answered, sweeping one manicured hand in a gesture for him to continue on.

Dennis passed her by, walking in like he owned the place. He sat down casually on the booth seat beside Jimmy Wills.

"Bowman," Jimmy Wills recognized him with a surprised tone.

"Hey, guys. How's it going?"

Frank glanced at Jimmy before saying, "If you don't mind, Bowman, we've got some work to do."

But Dennis ignored the obvious brush-off. "Is that your homework?" he asked with a nod at the papers.

"New advertising plan," Porter said vaguely, gathering the papers into a stack and turning them face-down.

"Yeah? I heard that some dropout named Ferris said no amount of advertising would help this place."

Porter gave him a stiff look. "How do you know Ferris? Guy dropped out before you dropped in."

Booker pointed a finger at his own head. "I've got ears, don't I? I hear things."

Frank leaned in a little over the table, interested. "What exactly do you hear?"

Dennis shrugged nonchalantly. "Heard the guy was an ass."

Frank laughed. "Sounds like you did know him."

"Just knew of him," Booker lied. "Gina from class said he was ragging on this place all the time. Figured I'd come see for myself. Might be a good place to bring my dates."

Jimmy Wills smiled, pleased. "What do you think?" he asked proudly.

Dennis looked around the room. "It's nice. Cozy." He deliberately added, "Haven't tasted the food yet, though, so I dunno. I guess Ferris thought it was crap or something."

"What's all this interest in Ferris?" Frank wanted to know, annoyed that the name kept popping up. "You're not a cop or anything, are you?"

"I look like a cop to you?" Dennis bluffed him, scoffing as if the idea were ridiculous. "If I was, would I be taking a marketing class in a community college?"

"Why _are_ you taking the class?" Jimmy asked. "You never turn in any homework."

"What are we, high schoolers? I hate homework." Matter-of-factly Booker answered, "I'm thinking of opening a nightclub. Figured I'd learn how to advertise for it first."

Frank looked with amusement at Dennis' button-front dress shirt and slacks. "You don't strike me as the nightclub type."

"Never judge a book by its cover," Booker advised smoothly. "But speaking of advertising…" he looked around at the sparse amount of customers. "Is this why you're in the class? You know, you might bring in more people if you actually put a _sign_ out front."

"We did have one," Jimmy told him. "Real nice one, actually. But someone tagged it last week. Wasn't even there a month before someone put puke-brown spray paint all over it. "

"You know damn well who did it," Frank sniped.

"He's sure it was Ferris," Jimmy told him, his tone indicating he'd heard Frank's accusation a few too many times. "But this neighborhood gets tagged all the time."

"Well maybe he did those, too," Porter said in irritation. "Ever think of that?"

Jimmy faced his business partner. "I'll admit the guy's got a temper, but that doesn't mean he's a vandal."

"Then why'd he drop the class all of a sudden?" Frank answered his own question. "Cause he's too chicken to show his face now."

"Well, no wonder, after—"

Porter kicked his leg, shutting him up.

Dennis looked back and forth between them. "After what?" He put fake amusement into the note of interest in his voice, hoping they'd spill if they thought he'd condone it. "What'd you guys do?"

"Nothing," Porter gave Wills a hard stare, daring him to say another word.

Dennis couldn't help but notice their use of present-tense when talking about Jeff. Whatever part they'd played in his demise, maybe they didn't actually know that Jeff was really dead.

That could mean they didn't intend to kill him, whatever they did. Or they were waiting for someone else to do their dirty work and didn't know that it was already done.

But these two did have motive—a vandalized sign and bruised egos—and plenty of opportunity.

Booker let the topic of Jeff Ferris drop for now. "So…you guys serve steak here?" he asked the guys, changing the subject.

"Sure," Wills jumped on that. "How do you like yours?"

"Well done."

"Emily." Porter called a waitress over. "Emily, bring Mr. Bowman a steak, well done. On the house."

"You got it." Emily gave Dennis a wink.

He smiled back easily. "Thanks, sweetheart."


	10. Chapter 9

Booker left the restaurant that morning with two things on his mind.

One, to find out if anyone from the neighboring businesses had seen Jeff or anyone else vandalize the restaurant's sign.

Two, to get a look at Jeff's car and check for any signs of sabotage.

If Porter and Wills really thought Ferris had vandalized their sign, and they sabotaged Jeff's car in return to make him wreck it, that was premeditated murder.

There was a small problem concerning Jeff Ferris' car: Dennis didn't know where it was. Even if he got ahold of the police report documenting the wreck, it wouldn't tell him where the vehicle was taken afterward.

He'd have to ask Donna if she knew what wrecking yard would have it.

And that posed another problem, because this was Friday and Donna was currently in school teaching one of her classes. He'd have to call her later this afternoon.

Meanwhile, he'd knock on a few doors, starting with the one right across the street facing the restaurant.

But after several answers of 'I didn't see anything', Booker was about ready to give up.

He'd circled the block with his questioning and came back around to end at the small convenience store next to the restaurant.

The last door. He might as well try it.

"Hi," Dennis greeted the storekeeper with a friendly smile.

"Help you with somethin', son?"

"Yeah, actually." He leaned an elbow casually on the countertop. "I was wondering if you could tell me who vandalized the sign belonging to that restaurant next door."

"Bunch o' kids," the guy answered plainly.

"Kids?" Booker echoed. "You saw them?"

"Yeah, I seen 'em," the guy responded in less-than-proper grammar. "Monday 'fore last. I's a-workin' late, after dark, seen some kids sneakin' round." He scratched his beard and continued, "Had spray paint; ugliest brown I ever saw."

"And they painted the restaurant sign next door with it?" Dennis prodded.

"Yessir. Started on my front door too, but I chased 'em off." The man proudly held up a baseball bat that he kept concealed behind the counter.

Booker raised an eyebrow at the bat. "You didn't use that on anyone, did you?" he had to ask.

"Course not," the guy answered, putting the bat away. "Just waved it a little. Punks runned off."

Booker looked back at the front door he'd come in through. "You said they started on your front door. I don't see any paint there."

"Paid a kid to clean it off."

Well, it wasn't proof that the vandalizing had been done by kids and not Jeff Ferris. But it was something, and what would this guy have to gain by lying?

"Alright, thanks for your time." Dennis tapped his palm on the countertop and turned to leave.

"Hey," the storekeeper called after him. "You catch them punks, you tell 'em my bat's waitin' for the next Picasso thinks he's gonna paint up my buildin'."

Booker gave the guy a wary look. "Yeah, I'll be sure to tell them."

It was getting late now, and he didn't want to miss today's Marketing Solutions class.

Apparently nobody in the class had seen Jeff's obituary in the newspaper, because they still believed he was only skipping classes.

But Dennis Booker had a new trick up his sleeve that would quickly put and end to that false assumption and hopefully sprout a new lead.

He drove back to his apartment to find the newspaper clipping that Suzanne had given him. He got to the classroom before any of the other students had arrived, and handed the obituary to the instructor.

"Would you please share that with the class today?" he asked politely. "Oh, and don't tell anyone it was me who brought it in, okay?"

The teacher took the clipping, glancing up at Booker before putting on her eyeglasses to read it. "Oh my," she murmured, reading the text silently. "Well, that certainly explains his absence," she added sadly.

As requested, the teacher shared Jeff's obituary with the class before starting the day's lesson plan.

Dennis' suspicion was confirmed: everyone was surprised at the news of Jeff Ferris' death.

A shocked silence fell over the room. His tablemate Gina——who'd been friends with Jeff——looked like she was going to cry.

But Booker only focused on the reactions of Frank Porter and Jimmy Wills.

The two guys shared a significant glance between them. Wills looked accusatory, but Porter only looked nervous.

Dennis wanted more than just that.

He leaned forward over the corner of his table toward the other guys. "Hey," he whispered loud enough for them to hear but not for everyone to listen. "Isn't that the same guy who wrecked your restaurant sign? Guess he got what was coming to him, huh?"

He received two identical glares from Porter and Wills. Booker held up two hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm just saying…"

Jimmy's eyes darted around anxiously before he leaned in to confer with his business partner.

Now that was more like it, Dennis thought smugly. He strained to hear what was said without being obvious about it.

"…supposed to teach him a _lesson_, not _kill_ him..."

That didn't sound the least bit innocent. What did Wills mean by that?

But Dennis couldn't hear Porter's hushed response, and Wills said nothing else.

Well, he hadn't expected them to spill any major revelations about anything right in the middle of class. Mostly he wanted to see if the news of Jeff's death would make them sweat at all.

Apparently it did, because they definitely looked suspicious now.

He really needed to get a look at Jeff's car.

But he still needed to find it first. And that meant waiting a while longer.

Dennis didn't want to interrupt Donna's classes to ask her where the car went, and she probably wouldn't have that info for him off the top of her head anyway.

When class was over, he caught up with Porter and Wills before they left.

"That's karma, huh?" he said casually as he slid past them toward the door. "Guy wrecks your sign, then wrecks his car. If I didn't know better, I'd think you guys did it."

Jimmy paled.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Porter challenged him.

"Hey, relax, man," Booker pretended to back off. "Just a joke."

"You got a sick sense of humor," Wills told him seriously.

Dennis shrugged. "No worse than some." But he'd made his point with his calculated verbal barbs.

These two were definitely unsettled now. It was too bad the weekend had to interrupt the flow of classes, because Booker could have happily made them squirm for another couple of days.

But there were other more useful things he could accomplish on the weekend.

As soon as 4 o'clock rolled around, Dennis called Donna's home phone number from his car phone.

"Hi, it's me…Dennis," he said into the phone. "Listen, did the police or anyone inspect Jeff's car for tampering or sabotage when they found it wrecked?"

"I don't know," Donna answered back. "They said they didn't find anything suspicious at the time, but I don't think they looked very hard."

"I want to take a look at the car myself."

"Would sabotage even stand out after a wreck like that?" Donna wanted to know. "I mean, the car was really smashed up."

"Depends on the kind of sabotage, and where it was done," Dennis answered. "Where's the car now?"

"It's at a junk yard. I think I've got their business card somewhere…hold on." Donna was gone from the phone for a minute, then her voice came through again. "It's at Burke's Salvage. Forty-one North Gold Street."

He got the car's make, model, paint color and VIN number from her too before hanging up the phone. But as bad luck would have it, the owner of the wrecking yard was just locking up when Dennis got there.

"Sorry, son," the man apologized but wouldn't let Booker into the junk yard unsupervised. "We're open on Saturdays; come back tomorrow."

Booker had been on a roll; now he was stuck at a virtual roadblock. There was nothing else he could really do until he examined the car.

Disappointed, he headed for home. He'd unwind, maybe order a pizza, read a book for a while.

Tomorrow he'd go back to the wrecking yard and hopefully get some answers.


	11. Chapter 10

"Hi," Booker greeted the man behind the counter. "I was here yesterday when you were closing up."

Mr. Burke nodded. "I remember. What can I do for ya?"

"I'm looking for a particular car that I'm told is in your wrecking yard. It would have been brought in sometime within the past two weeks."

"Got a VIN number?"

Dennis unfolded a scrap of paper and handed it to him.

"Gotta check my book," the man said, pulling a large and dirty ring-bound book across the counter. He started with the most recent entries, going up the list from the bottom of the page. "Yep, I've got it. What'cha need it for?"

"I just need to look at it," Booker explained easily. "A friend of mine wrecked it, and I want to find out why."

"Don't the insurance company have someone do that when they call it a total?" the guy asked rhetorically, already knowing the answer.

"Well, I'm from a different insurance company," Dennis answered. It wasn't a lie, he did work for the Teshima Corporation investigating insurance claims…he just wasn't here on behalf of Teshima this time.

"S'pose it wouldn't hurt to look at it," the yard owner allowed, handing back the scrap of paper. "Follow me."

He led Dennis through the graveyard of vehicles, past mounds of tires, through a maze of stripped shells and piles of pieces.

"There she be," Burke pointed.

Booker stared in dismay at the top of one stack of cars. "Is there any way you could take it down?"

"What's it worth to ya?" the old man asked with a slick grin.

"Ten bucks?" Dennis offered.

"How 'bout twenty?" the man bargained.

Dennis sighed. "Fine…twenty. But not until the car is down here." He held up two ten-dollar bills to prove he had the cash, but kept hold of it while the old man went for a crane.

The car was plucked from the top of the stack by a large metal claw, and deposited on the ground in a nearby clearing.

Booker forced the driver-side door open, and double-checked the VIN number stamped into the small plate mounted near the hinges. Only after making sure it was the right car did he hand over the cash.

"Pleasure doin' business with ya," the junkyard owner grinned. He left Dennis alone with the car.

Booker had come prepared with a small inspection kit…a few hand tools, flashlight, lightweight tire jack and an old sheet to lay between him and the filthy ground if he had to crawl under the car.

With a strong screwdriver and some muscle, he managed to pry open the latch holding the hood closed. He tested the hood's springs, then snapped a piece of metal off another car to prop up the mess more securely.

Careful fingers probed around the engine, looking for any kind of pre-accident damage. He followed wires and hoses and clamps and pins, but everything looked okay aside from the customary grime covering everything.

He was going to have to get under the car.

The tire jack was handy for this part. He jacked up the car as high as it would go, then dragged over a nearby cement block to shove under one flat tire to keep the car from falling back down on him.

Dennis wished he'd have worn coveralls, but at least the sheet was better than nothing over the cold, hard, dirty ground as he scooted under the back end of the crunched-up car.

His flashlight swept over the underside of the carriage, illuminating more dirt and grime. He shined it around the tire well on one side, then turned his attention to the other side.

The flashlight beam followed a few thin hoses away from the wheel and toward the middle of the car. It stopped at one particular spot, and a smile of satisfaction spread across Booker's face. "Bingo."

The brake line's hose wasn't cut all the way through, but there was a noticeable slice in it. Not a jagged split from normal wear and tear, but smooth and precise, like a cut from a pocketknife blade.

Dennis pulled out his own pocketknife, holding it like he would if he were to cut the line. The angle and position of his blade matched the cut in the hose.

A cut like that wouldn't have happened in a rollover accident; that slice in the brake line would have _caused_ the accident.

Finally, he had hard evidence.

But he already knew it wouldn't hold up well during a court trial. Any lawyer could easily argue that the cut could have been made by any person at any time, not only before the car was wrecked but also afterward.

In fact, Booker would have a heck of a time proving he hadn't put that cut there himself just to plant false evidence on a car whose security had long been compromised since the day of the wreck.

If he could just get the guys to confess they did it…

Dennis sighed, rolling out from under the car and collecting his things together. He pulled the cement block out from under the one tire and let the jack back down.

He wadded up the soiled sheet, wiping his dirty hands on the cleanest part of it. It wasn't worth saving, so he tossed it into the burnt-up shell of another car nearby.

There wasn't anything else he could do there, so he went back home.

He smelled like car grease, even after scrubbing his hands clean, so he showered and put on fresh clean clothes.

It was still early in the day, not far past noon, and Dennis was restless.

He thought about calling Donna, just to hear her voice, but decided against disturbing her. She was probably enjoying her day alone, grading school papers or whatever she did on Saturdays.

Dennis left his apartment again, this time on foot as he strolled down the sidewalk in the autumn atmosphere.

It was cold, and he imagined his mom's voice——scolding in the way only a mother could——telling him he shouldn't have gone out with his hair still wet.

Well, he hadn't caught pneumonia from doing that yet, and he didn't figure he was likely to this time either.

Working out had always been a comfort and a release for Dennis Booker, and a brisk stroll was enough to do the trick.

He breathed deeply, inhaling the crisp air and then wrinkling his nose at the smell of pollution that permeated the city.

The sandy beach called to him from several blocks away, so he turned west, toward the coastline.

Cold grey waves rolled back and forth along the beach, and Dennis enjoyed his pleasant solitude. He was less of a loner now than he used to be, but he still appreciated a good allowance of silence when he was able to escape to it.

Seagulls squawked at him, piercing the quiet.

"Sorry, birds," he said aloud. "No breadcrumbs today."

They squawked again as if in protest, and Dennis continued on his way.

The day was passing a little quicker now. Booker started for home again, going a shorter route than he'd taken to get there.

Back in the warmth of his loft, he stripped off his jacket on his way to the kitchen.

His wet hair had freeze-dried. He ran a hand through it, loosening the thick strands into an attractively rough mess atop his head.

He stood before the open fridge, taking visual inventory. Half the stuff in there needed to be thrown out, and some of it he wasn't sure why he'd bought in the first place.

Dennis pulled out a bottle of beer and closed the fridge. He snagged a bag of potato chips from the cupboard and settled down on the couch for a little relaxation.


	12. Chapter 11

She stood at his doorstep, silently debating with herself.

Donna raised her knuckles, and after a hesitant beat, she knocked.

Footsteps, a deadbolt turned, and the door opened.

"Donna," Dennis greeted in surprise.

"Hi," she answered in a small voice.

"Uh, come on in." He stood back to let her enter.

"I'm sorry to just…drop in on you," she offered, stepping into his apartment. "It's…really quiet, at my house. Too quiet."

She was lonely, he realized. Well, he could help with that.

"You're welcome here anytime, Donna," he said sincerely. "Can I take your coat?"

She unbuttoned the front and shrugged out of it. "Thanks."

He ducked into his bedroom doorway, tossing her coat on top of the low dresser. "Are you hungry?" he called back to her. "I've got pizza…it's from yesterday."

That actually sounded good. "I'd like some pizza," she accepted.

She followed him into the kitchen, but being unfamiliar with his home, she stood out of the way behind a kitchen chair.

"Plates are in that cupboard." Dennis pointed to one upper cabinet as he pulled a pizza box out of the fridge. He tore the lid off and poked the whole thing into the microwave.

Donna took two plates down and set them on the table.

"Water, soda or beer?" Dennis asked, standing before the open fridge once again.

"Oh, um…water's fine. I can get my own." Donna opened another cupboard to look for a glass and filled it from the tap.

Dennis grabbed another beer for himself and shut the fridge.

The microwave buzzed, and he pulled the pizza out. "Nice and hot."

He let Donna take a slice first, hiding a smile when she picked the olives off and dropped them back into the box. She never did like olives.

Dennis put a slice on his own plate, then tucked his unopened beer under his arm and picked up the pizza box. "Let's eat in the livingroom."

This time he followed her, and set the pizza box on the coffeetable next to the bag of potato chips he'd tossed there earlier.

They settled comfortably on his couch, side by side like the old friends that they were.

Donna hadn't said much since she came in, but after she had taken a bite of pizza she seemed to find her voice again.

She chewed and swallowed, then asked, "Did you find anything on Jeff's car?"

He knew she'd ask about that sooner or later. But Dennis didn't want to tell her too much just yet, not until he had all the pieces figured out himself.

"There was a hole in the brake fluid line," he let her know. "If his brakes were out, it could definitely have caused him to wreck the car."

"So it _was_ those guys?" Donna held onto her original suspicion. "From Jeff's class at the college?"

"I'm sure they had something to do with it," he agreed halfway. "But whether they did it themselves, or someone else did…I'm not sure yet."

She nodded, looking back down at the plate on her knees. "Dennis…I wanted to say thank you, again, for checking this out. I know you said you weren't doing it for Jeff…but I think he would have appreciated it anyway."

Dennis cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. He really didn't care if Jeff Ferris would have appreciated his efforts or not.

He was investigating because he was good at it, because it was what he loved to do.

And because it was pretty much the only way he could help her.

"It's no problem," was all he said to Donna, finishing off one slice of pizza. "How's teaching been going for you lately?"

"It's really good." Donna pulled another piece of pizza onto her plate. "My students are so quick and eager to learn. It's…encouraging."

"Any leather-clad rebels in your class?" he asked with a grin.

She laughed. "They're fourth-graders, Dennis."

"So?" He chuckled too. "I got my first leather jacket in third grade."

Donna bit into her second wedge of pizza, trying to picture Dennis as a third-grader. She hadn't known him then——they'd met as freshmen in high school——but she could imagine him wearing black leather even that young.

"That's how I got the nickname 'Joe Cool'," Dennis added.

"Now that, I believe."

They fell back into silence, more comfortable than the previous span of quiet had been.

Donna finished her second slice of pizza and set her empty plate next to the box on the coffeetable.

Dennis tilted the pizza box up. "One more?"

She looked at the two slices left. "Oh, no, thanks…I think I've had enough."

He set the box back down and stacked his plate on hers. "Ice cream?" he offered. "I've got vanilla."

She smiled. "You go ahead. I'm good."

But he didn't bother with getting ice cream for just himself. Instead he collected the pizza box and his beer bottle.

Donna followed him into the kitchen, carrying their dirty plates and her empty water glass.

The two remaining slices of pizza went back into the fridge, the beer bottle was tossed in the trash, and the plates were set gently in the sink.

Donna slowly refilled her glass at the sink. She took a sip, gazing out the dark window, then set her glass down.

She wasn't really thirsty; she was just stalling. She didn't want to go back to her big, silent house again just yet.

"Hey." Dennis' face appeared above her shoulder from behind. "You okay?" he questioned, concerned.

She nodded. "Yeah…I'm just…not looking forward to that empty house again. It's not so bad when I'm at school teaching all day, but on the weekend…"

He brought his hands up to rest on her shoulders. "You could stay here tonight," he suggested lightly. "If you want."

"I've imposed on you enough already."

"So what's a few more hours?" he argued softly, his lips above her ear.

She did want to stay, and not just to escape the silence.

He took her lack of further protest as a positive sign. His fingers gently pulled her long hair away from the back of her neck and draped it over her shoulder.

Goosebumps tickled her arms under the long sleeves of her shirt.

He pressed a soft kiss to the back of her neck.

She inhaled, her skin tingling as she allowed herself lean into him.

A muscled arm slid around her waist, and another kiss was placed below her ear.

Her legs were weakening. She turned to face him, and his other arm went around her.

His dark eyes glittered with passion, but he was waiting for her before he went any further.

Her heart was pounding. Of their own volition, her fingers gripped the front of his t-shirt. She rose on her toes to meet his lips halfway.

And when his body asked hers the unvoiced question…this time, she surrendered.


	13. Chapter 12

Donna woke feeling nothing but guilt. Complete, absolute, unrelenting guilt.

Her husband lay forgotten in the cold ground while she slept in the warm bed of another man.

She hated herself. She hated Jeff for being dead. She hated Dennis for being the one man she could never seem to get over.

What the hell was she doing?

She didn't belong here anymore.

This wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't honest.

She knew one thing for certain: she had to get out of there.

* * *

Something felt wrong even before he opened his eyes.

He lay silent, listening for the soft sound of breathing beside him.

He heard nothing. He opened his eyes.

Donna had come to him last night to escape the silence…and this morning she'd left him to lay enveloped in it.

Dejected, he rose from the bed, covering himself with his bathrobe.

Donna's clothes, strewn across the floor last night, were gone now.

Her coat was gone, her shoes were gone…_she_ was gone.

Dennis swallowed back the lump in his throat and headed for the bathroom.

He showered, dressed, drank some coffee and ate a bagel that he couldn't even really taste.

He picked up the phone and dialed seven digits. Her answering machine picked up after four rings, and he hung up the phone without a word.

Such had become the pattern of his entire day. He called her telephone five more times throughout the day, and she never answered once.

He could understand if she had to leave him to go to work. But Donna was a schoolteacher, and this was Sunday.

She hadn't left a note. She didn't wake him before she left. She didn't answer his calls, or even call him back once.

She didn't do anything but sneak away and leave him behind like she was ashamed of what they'd done.

He was hurt, and he was angry.

He'd thought last night had meant something. It meant something to _him_, but apparently it meant the opposite to her.

* * *

Monday came with a vengeance.

Booker showed up at Teshima in the morning, but shut himself away in his office for most of the day. He was tense, and the last thing he wanted to do was bite everyone's heads off.

Thankfully his secretary had sensed his mood, and though she didn't know the reason for it, Suzanne did a pretty good job of keeping most people out of his hair.

He left the office early that day, and stood outside the college classroom door waiting for Frank Porter and Jimmy Wills to show up for class.

Booker was getting tired of playing games. He wanted to solve this thing once and for all, and get on with his life…either with or without Donna Ferris.

It was time for some direct confrontation.

"Hey, Bowman," Wills greeted casually as he and Porter approached from the hallway.

"Hey," Dennis answered back, crossing his arms over his chest. "I've been waiting for you two."

"Oh yeah?" Wills answered with an unconcerned smile. "Why's that?"

"I wanted to tell you guys about this girl I know," he began. "She's a great girl…real sweet. There's just one problem..." He paused, and his voice hardened as he finished. "She's the widow of a guy you two murdered."

The friendliness vanished from Wills' face.

Porter's jaw twitched a tight muscle. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about," he said with a glare for Dennis.

"No?" Booker stood his ground. "You thought Ferris wrecked your sign. Then the _very next day_, someone wrecks Ferris' car and kills him. Coincidence?"

Wills wasn't amused. "Get your facts straight. Ferris wrecked his own car. Rolled it in a ditch, from what I heard."

"Thanks to you cutting his brake line," Dennis countered smoothly.

"You know, you've got a really unhealthy obsession with this guy," Porter tried to blow him off.

Booker tilted his head. "Yeah, I tend to get a little obsessed when it comes to murder."

Porter's glare turned ice cold. "Back off, Bowman," he threatened intensely. "Or you'll wish you never stuck your big nose in."

He tried to hide it, but Frank Porter was rattled.

Dennis gave him a maddeningly calm smile. "You gonna sabotage my car too?"

Porter lunged with a ready fist, but Booker had anticipated it.

He sidestepped the attack, chiding the angry man. "Is that the best you've got?"

Wills darted between them, holding his friend back. "Come on, man. He doesn't know anything. Cops aren't here, are they?"

The logic wasn't lost on Porter. He jerked his arm free. "Mind your own damn business," he warned Dennis one last time before shoving past him into the classroom.

"Just let it go, man," Wills also said to Dennis seriously. "The guy's already dead. Does it really make a difference why?"

"Does if it's murder," Dennis answered stone-faced.

But Jimmy Wills wasn't budging. "I already told you; we didn't do anything."

"Then who did?"

Jimmy stepped around him, entering the classroom. "Just watch yourself," he advised quietly.

Was that a threat, or a warning?

Booker figured it was mostly the latter.

Jimmy always seemed to be the more peaceable of the two, less prone to anger while Frank definitely had a looser grip on his own aggression.

Dennis Booker was no profiler, but he could certainly peg Frank Porter as having the capability to sabotage someone else if it might benefit himself. He had some doubts about putting Jimmy Wills into that category too.

But even if Frank Porter acted alone in anger against Ferris, Jimmy Wills would still be an accomplice if he was covering for him.

After getting the two suspects all stirred up right before class, Booker didn't even bother attending that day. The cat was out of the bag now anyway.

Instead, he spent the time breaking into and searching the ugly brown car they always rode together in, in the hopes of finding a pocketknife that might have been used to cut Jeff's car's brake line.

But he found nothing to tie these guys to Ferris or his crunched-up vehicle.

Booker sat in his own car again, thinking and waiting. When those two creeps got out of class today, he'd follow them.

Dennis moved his car farther down the parking lot, where he could still see the ugly brown sedan without them necessarily spotting his black Firebird.


	14. Chapter 13

It was cold enough to keep him from dozing off from boredom in his parked car, and Dennis was glad when his two targets finally emerged from the classroom and headed for their car.

Porter slid in behind the wheel; Wills opened the passenger side door to get in.

The first stop was at the restaurant, where Porter dropped Wills off at the back door.

Another stop was made several blocks later. Porter pulled up by a phone booth, dropped a quarter into the slot, and dialed seven digits from memory.

Booker watched from a distance as his target held a brief but intense-looking conversation with whoever was on the other end.

A pair of binoculars helped him get a better look at the angry expression on Frank Porter's face, but they did nothing for the lack of audio.

He really needed to learn how to read lips.

Porter snapped one final sentence at his listener before roughly throwing the phone's handset back onto its hook and getting back into his car.

Frank was on the move again, and so was Dennis.

They turned coastward, the brown sedan taking a back road leading to the docks along the near end of the shoreline.

Dennis hung back a ways, rolling his car to a stop inconspicuously behind some thin and scraggly bushes.

Porter appeared to be meeting someone…probably whoever he'd called on the payphone.

Booker subconsciously tapped the tip of his middle finger lightly against his bottom lip as he sat there observing.

Not long later, another car pulled up to the docks and a large bald black man emerged.

Porter also exited his car, and Dennis grabbed his binoculars once again.

The two men exchanged some words, then Porter held up a folded wad of cash between two fingers.

The dark-skinned guy hesitated a moment, but took the cash and unfolded it. After counting the bills, he refolded them and poked the wad into his pocket.

A payoff?

A pistol was tucked into the guy's waistband, its handle just visible. From appearance, he could certainly pass for a hitman.

They shook hands business-like; obviously it was a deal of some sort going down. The two guys then parted ways, each returning to their respective cars.

Booker resumed his stalking of Frank Porter as he drove back toward the center of town. He had a feeling Porter wasn't done with the errands to run, and he wanted to keep spying for a while longer.

But rush hour was causing the traffic to tighten up, and Dennis' car was quickly becoming pinned in on all sides.

He was closer to Porter's car than he was comfortable with, and thanks to the vehicles around him, he couldn't really back off very well.

If he could get just one car between his and Porter's, he'd feel better. But apparently nobody needed to merge into his lane right now.

He could see Frank's reflection in the other guy's own rearview mirror.

Way too close.

And then Porter glanced up, his gaze locking with Booker's in the mirror. Porter's reflection glared at him.

Damn it, he'd been spotted.

The light up ahead was turning red, but Frank gunned the engine and darted through the intersection anyway, making a sharp left turn and disappearing from sight.

Booker slammed on the brakes, striking his palm against the steering wheel in frustration. He'd have to sit there until the light turned green again.

He could have ran the red light. He'd done it before. But unless it was a matter of absolute life or death, he'd rather not do it and risk his and other people's lives too.

The toes of his shoes rested impatiently on the clutch and the brake pedal, and the very second the traffic light turned green he was gone.

He took the same turn Porter had made, and slowed down as he glanced down some alleys and other side streets.

That was a bust. Frank Porter was long gone by now, and Booker had no clue where he'd gone.

Giving up, he stopped at another red light. A car pulled up behind him and Dennis automatically glanced up at the movement in the rearview mirror.

He did a double-take, scoffing lightly. "You gotta be kidding me…"

The ugly brown sedan was right behind him.

Dennis made a right turn. The other driver followed, maintaining a modest distance but still keeping steady pace.

He sped up. So did his shadow.

Booker reached inside his jacket, his fingers confirming the reassuring presence of his pistol tucked out of sight.

Another left turn, and he was still being tailed.

But he was no stranger to being followed, and he kept his cool.

Evening was coming on quickly——a normal hour of nightfall for that cold time of year——so he turned on his headlights to be better seen by other motorists. His car was dark like the night, and he didn't need to get run into while someone was already following him.

Booker hooked a left at a green light, heading someplace specific this time. He pulled up outside a bar he sometimes visited when he was in the neighborhood.

He parked and turned off the headlights, but didn't cut the engine just yet. He took out his handgun and cocked it, ready for whatever trouble was sure to come.

But the other car only passed him by.

Dennis let out a breath, relaxing his grip on the pistol. Once the sedan was far away down the road, he uncocked the gun and put it back away.

He turned the headlights back on, put the car in gear and drove away. Once he was sure he wasn't being followed by anyone else, he headed for home.


	15. Chapter 14

Dennis had learned to listen even in his sleep. It had been a useful skill when he was on the police force, and since becoming a private investigator it had turned into a skill frequently necessary for survival.

More than once, his finely-tuned hearing had alerted him to the stealthy presence of someone seeking to kill him while he slept.

It was this skill, once again, that woke him from a deep sleep tonight.

Someone had just busted some glass outside, down in the parking lot below his bedroom window. A car, he figured, and he drowsily hoped it wasn't his.

Dressed for bed in a muscle shirt and sweatpants, Dennis rolled over on his stomach and peered down through the blinds, his eyes widening in shock at what he saw.

Sure enough, his car was missing a window.

It was also on fire.

Three figures in the moonlight moved away from the flaming vehicle and started for the stairs leading to the level his loft was on.

Who the hell were these guys, and what did they want with him?

Dennis grabbed the phone and his gun off the nightstand. He dialed 911 and held the receiver between his ear and shoulder as he snapped a loaded clip into his gun.

"This is Dennis Booker at 355 Westmont Apartments," he said in a rush to the voice on the other end. "Three armed men are breaking into my loft. I need backup. And send an ambulance too."

He dropped the receiver back onto the cradle. He snatched two more loaded ammunition clips from his bedside drawer and shoved them into his back pocket, hoping he wouldn't have to use them.

Gun in hand, he pressed his back against the wall beside the bedroom doorway, waiting.

A loud thump echoed from the other side of the apartment's entry door. Maybe he should have fastened all the locks after all.

Nope, wouldn't have made a difference. The door was off its hinges now and crashing to the floor.

Dennis always left a lamp turned on in the livingroom at night, and in the glass of one framed print on the wall he could see the illuminated and angled reflections of his intruders.

The big black guy from the docks, and two smaller guys with him.

Had Dennis Booker actually witnessed his own hit being arranged and paid for at the docks earlier? The very idea made his skin crawl.

He'd bet his next paycheck that these guys were also connected to whatever Frank Porter and Jimmy Wills did to Jeff Ferris.

"You sure about this, man?" one young-sounding voice asked.

A deeper voice answered back in a menacing tone. "Tag-along gonna chicken out on me?"

"No, man. He's cool…he's cool," a third voice chimed in. "Don't blow this, cuz," he warned the first one.

"Got work to do," the deep voice was heard again. "Find him."

Two pistols cocked. Dennis listened for a third, but never heard it.

Two guns, three guys. Either one of them didn't have a gun, or it was already cocked before they barged in.

They spread out in different directions, and Booker couldn't tell which voice belonged to which body but he did know they were going to discover him any second now.

His bedroom wall wasn't the greatest shield to hide behind, so he moved for a better cover.

The damn floor squeaked.

He dove to the carpet as bullets splintered the exposed doorframe waist-high. Booker rolled out of the open, returning gunfire and expending half his clip.

On his feet again, he ducked through the bathroom and out the other door that connected the bathroom with the tiny hallway.

A knife slashed at him from the side. That would be the guy without a gun.

Booker took him down without firing his gun, getting a punch in the gut and a gash across the shoulder for his efforts.

With a sock-clad foot he carefully kicked the knife away from the groaning body on the floor and continued on with his gun leading the way.

Blood was starting to trickle down his arm from the cut, but he couldn't do anything about it right now.

A bullet whizzed past his ear, embedding itself in the wall.

Dennis whipped his gun around another doorway and fired, catching the biggest guy in the arm.

That didn't stop the thug, though, and Booker answered more gunfire with the rest of his clip.

He ducked behind cover again, ejecting the empty clip and snapping a new one in place. So far he hadn't taken any bullets himself, and he wanted to keep it that way.

A second bullet, in the thigh this time, finally stopped the big guy.

Booker only aimed to kill if he saw no other option. And these guys wouldn't be any good for questioning if they were all dead.

There was one guy left, smaller than the biggest one and bigger than the scrawny first one.

Lead ripped across the couch as Booker ducked behind it. He released more rounds in return, but he couldn't really see who he was aiming at.

He stood, immediately coming face-to-face with thug number three.

He aimed for the leg again and fired once.

The third intruder went down, but Booker's gun remained poised as his gaze focused a few steps beyond the downed man.

The first guy he'd knocked out earlier was back up. He'd moved from the hallway to the livingroom…and was now pointing a gun at Booker's head.

"Don't move." The boy's dark knuckles were almost white as they gripped the gun. His nostrils flared as his breaths came out in huffs.

It was a bit ironic that the last one standing would be the youngest and smallest. This kid couldn't be more than seventeen at the most.

Booker could tell from his unfamiliar grip on the pistol that the kid wasn't the most comfortable with a gun in his hand. That was probably why he'd preferred the knife at first.

"Put the gun down," Dennis ordered firmly, his own weapon trained squarely on the kid.

The kid took one tentative step to his right, closer to the door, and Booker countered with his own step right, his aim never wavering from his opponent's chest.

Another step for each, then one more.

The couch wasn't between them anymore; only open space as they now stood at each end of it.

Blood still dripped down Booker's left arm, warm and wet. The pain, intense in the beginning, was starting to slowly ebb away. Numbness was his body's self-defense against injury.

Good thing it wasn't his right arm, or he'd have been shooting left-handed. Not that he couldn't…his aim was just more exact when done right-handedly.

"Put it down," Booker told him once more. He didn't want to shoot, but he would if he had to.

This kid was tempting fate. He looked more scared than dangerous. He showed no obvious intent to actually shoot Dennis, but he wasn't putting his gun down either.

Booker's finger was on the trigger. All he had to do was squeeze and end this standoff. He'd aim for a leg or arm, something that would incapacitate his intruder but not kill or maim too badly.

"Just let me go, man," the boy pleaded, beads of sweat beginning to form on his dark forehead.

"Who sent you?" Booker demanded.

"I don't know, man! I just come with my cousin!" The kid gasped a desperate sob. "I swear man, I never done this before!"

Relying on his gut feeling, Dennis took a small risk.

"Look," he said to the kid. "I don't want to shoot you. And I know you don't want to shoot me. So why don't we both just put our guns down, okay?"

"No way, dude. You white boys all the same—you'll put a bullet in me soon as my gun's down."

Booker held his left palm up in a neutral gesture, lowering his voice to a less angry tone. "I promise I won't."

The boy stared at him a beat, wild-eyed and breathing heavily. "You promise?" he echoed with a hint of hope.

Dennis grew even calmer. "I promise."

The kid sucked in a breath, considering his very limited options. Finally, his shaking hand lowered the pistol.

Dennis also lowered his weapon. He took two cautious steps forward, then two more.

His own gun pointed at the floor in his right hand, he reached out his left hand to disarm the boy.

The pistol was given up easily, both weapons were uncocked, and the kid sank to his knees beside his fallen cousin just as armed police spilled through the open front doorway.

"A little late, aren't you?" Booker complained to the uniforms, dropping both disabled handguns to the floor in relief.


	16. Chapter 15

"How's that feel?"

Dennis looked at the row of fresh stitches running across his left bicep like a miniature train track. "Hurts like hell."

"It'll be worse if you let it get infected," the paramedic warned, covering it with a square of gauze and white bandage tape. "Keep it clean and dry. And go easy on any pain meds."

"Sure," Dennis agreed sedately.

The medic closed his kit and moved to assist his partner in moving out the guys Booker had taken down.

The two bigger ones were on stretchers, but would probably recover just fine once the bullets were dug out. The kid was upright on his own two legs with his wrists handcuffed together. His only injury was emotional.

Dennis ambled over to the police officers on the scene, one of whom he'd been privileged to work with back before he'd joined the Jump Street program.

"Hey, Logan."

"Just can't stay out of trouble, can you?" Officer Logan cracked with a smile for his young friend and old partner.

"Not when it follows me around," Booker replied wearily. "So, the usual drill? Statement downtown?"

Logan shook his head. "Nah, it's late. Come down in the morning and we'll get it straightened out. Get some sleep." He looked around the trashed and bullet-ridden apartment. "If you can, that is. I can have someone stand guard for the night if you want."

"No, that's okay. Thanks." Dennis gave him a brotherly slap on the shoulder as the officer exited on the heels of his partner.

It was one-thirty in the morning, and his loft was quiet once again.

The adrenaline had worn off, and now that Dennis Booker wasn't fighting to stay alive, he was just fighting to stay awake.

He inhaled a deep breath, surveying the damage to his apartment. At least it hadn't been blown up.

Small comfort, he thought as he reattached his front door on its weakened hinges. He pushed the couch against the door just for good measure, careful not to strain the new stitches in his arm.

He stalked into the bathroom, finding a bottle of over-the-counter pain pills in the medicine cabinet. He washed them down with a cup of water.

Then he trudged to his bedroom and flung himself face-down on the bed.

* * *

"Two of them are responsible for the death of Jeff Ferris," Officer Logan told Booker the next day about the thugs he'd taken down in his apartment. "Only one of them actually confessed to cutting the brake line on his car…the other guy is just an accomplice."

"And the third one?" Booker asked of the kid.

"No previous record on him," Logan answered. "Younger cousin to one of the other two. Claims he was just along for the ride, and I think he's actually telling the truth on that part."

"They say why they sabotaged Jeff's car?"

"Guy named Frank Porter hired 'em to. Retribution for wrecking a damn restaurant sign." Logan laughed humorlessly. "A restaurant sign. Hell of a thing to kill someone over."

"Jeff didn't wreck that sign," Dennis corrected. "Some kids did it. I have an eyewitness who saw them."

Logan shrugged a shoulder. "People assume the wrong things all the time."

"Did they name anyone else? Jimmy Wills?"

Logan looked at him with surprise. "Yeah. You know where to find 'em?"

Booker's jaw twitched. "I know _exactly_ where to find them."

With an unmarked civilian-style police car following behind, Dennis rode his motorcycle to the community college.

In the crisp fall air, the ride was a chilly one on a bike. But since Dennis' beloved Firebird had been torched the night before, he really had no other choice.

He checked his side mirror.

The two police officers, wearing plain clothes to blend in, would hang back just a little until Booker made contact with his targets.

Dennis parked his motorcycle in a vacant spot near the building where the Marketing Solutions class was held. He didn't see his suspects' car anywhere, so he figured they must not be there yet.

He checked his watch. Any minute now, his two scumbags should show up for class.

He sat coolly astride his bike, dressed once again in his comfortable torn blue jeans and black leather jacket. Sunglasses adorned his face, and fingerless leather gloves covered his hands.

His eyes scanned the parking lot, finally coming to rest on a certain ugly brown sedan pulling into a spot.

Booker removed his shades, making eye contact with the police officers and nodding his head in the direction of the brown sedan. Then he nonchalantly got off his bike and strolled toward the car himself.

Frank Porter and Jimmy Wills exited their car. Paying no attention to the rest of the parking lot, they walked to the back of their car and opened the trunk.

"You carry the easel," Frank ordered, leaning into the trunk. "I'll get the posters."

Booker came up behind them, and when the two straightened with their hands full, he made his move.

"Hi, guys," he greeted, draping his arms casually but firmly around both of their necks. "Surprised to see me?"

Jimmy swallowed nervously, but Frank only looked angry.

"You _are_ a cop, aren't you?" he demanded stiffly.

Booker shook his head, tightening his double-headlock grip. "Not anymore." He tilted a head toward the two plain-clothes officers who joined them. "But _they_ still are."

It had been two years since he resigned from the police force, and Dennis Booker still missed the kind of rush he got from busting criminals. Even without a badge to give him the official authority, he still loved it.

"Congrats, gentlemen," he said cheerfully, releasing Frank Porter and Jimmy Wills into police custody. "You're under arrest."


	17. Chapter 16

Donna still wasn't answering her phone.

Dennis replaced the receiver with a long sigh. This wasn't the kind of thing you just left a message about on somebody's answering machine.

He needed to tell her face-to-face what had really happened to her husband.

But she wasn't at her house when he went there, and a phone call to a number long buried in his memory revealed she wasn't at her parents' house either.

Dennis knew of one other place to look. His motorcycle was loud and conspicuous in the settled tranquility of the cemetery.

A single figure, familiar to Booker's sight, stood beneath the branches of a maple tree at one recently-dug gravesite. She turned her head at the sound of his approach, but her gaze didn't linger long before returning to the stone in front of her.

His shoes crunched on dried leaves and he came to a stop beside her at Jeff's grave. He stared at the headstone a moment, then spoke quietly. "We got 'em."

Her heart skipped a beat but Donna's eyes remained fixed on the grave marker. "Wills and Porter?"

"They had a hand in it, yeah," he confirmed quietly.

"Why?" Donna demanded, turning to look up at Booker. "Why Jeff? What did he do, that anyone would want to kill him?"

"Jeff didn't do anything. Frank Porter thought he'd vandalized his restaurant sign."

"Did he?"

"No," Dennis told her truthfully. "It was a bunch of kids with spray paint and no supervision. But Porter thought it was Jeff, so he sent some muscle after him as payback."

"To kill him," Donna assumed.

After being allowed to observe the police interrogation of Porter and Wills, Dennis Booker finally had all the pieces of the puzzle.

"Killing him wasn't the plan," he revealed. "He was just supposed to mess up Jeff's car a little…because Jeff was so proud of it, you know?"

She nodded, swallowing back more tears. "He'd rebuilt almost the entire thing himself."

"But instead of denting up the car or bashing in the windows…the guy decided to cut the brake line. And Jeff paid the price."

The truth was little comfort, but it was better than not knowing at all.

She clenched her jaw, determined not to start crying again. "They confessed to it?"

"Yeah." For some reason it didn't seem important to tell her that the hired muscle had also been sent to shut him up.

Donna was silent again, processing it. Her gaze fixed once more on the grave of her deceased husband.

A gust of wind dropped several leaves onto the granite headstone before swirling them away.

Dennis shifted on his feet, then broke the silence before he could lose the nerve. "Donna…I know this isn't the best time or place to do this, but there's something I want to ask you."

She looked up at him, and she knew what he was going to say. She could see it in his eyes. But she wasn't sure that she could stand to hear it.

"Dennis…" she began, hoping to stop him before he said the words.

He heard the resistance in her voice, and it stabbed at him.

"I _love_ you, Donna." His hands gripped her upper arms as emotion drove his words home. "I want to be with you. I want us to be _together_."

"Dennis, I can't…" she whispered hoarsely, silently pleading for him to understand. "Not again."

Déjà vu. It hit him like a ton of bricks.

The last time he'd stood there like this, baring his soul to her and declaring his love after spending one forbidden night together, she'd rejected him. She had been engaged to another man, was confused by her dormant feelings for Dennis, but she knew that she would honor her promise to her fiancée.

It was happening to him again, and this time the other guy wasn't even _alive_ anymore. Nothing and nobody stood in their way this time…and she still wouldn't accept him back.

That could only mean one thing.

He released her arms. Hurt and angry, he glared into her eyes. "If you don't love me anymore, Donna…just say so."

But she _did_ still love him. That was the whole problem!

She loved him in high school, practically from the moment they met, but he broke her heart by getting sent off to juvenile detention and leaving her behind.

She still loved him when her parents told her she could never see him again.

She still loved him before she was engaged to Jeff; back when she thought of leaving her then-boyfriend and tracking Dennis down to try a life with him again.

She still loved him when he helped her find her fiancée who had gone missing after their high school reunion.

She still loved him even when she'd pledged marriage vows to someone else.

She still loved him this very moment as they stood over her husband's own grave.

But Donna was afraid to give in to it again, because even if it wasn't a betrayal to her husband's memory…loving Dennis Booker only ever ended in pain for her.

So she lied.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the two simple words sounding horrendous in her head.

His face tightened, and he looked away. He inhaled against a stinging threat of tears, and relaxed his jaw on the exhale.

"I'm sorry, too," he said, his voice thick as he looked at her one last time.

Tears dripped down Donna's pale cheeks. Any other time, Dennis Booker would have brushed them away, dried them with a kiss.

But now, he only poked his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and stepped back. "Goodbye, Donna."

And he walked away.


	18. Chapter 17

Dennis Booker parked his motorcycle next to the blue Mustang, then trudged up a flight of stairs and knocked sedately on one apartment door.

He wasn't exactly sure why he'd picked this particular place to visit, aside from the fact that he didn't want anyone's sympathy right now and figured he wouldn't be in much danger of receiving that here.

Tom Hanson was surprised to find the former police officer at his doorstep, but let him in anyway. Maybe it wouldn't kill them to attempt a friendship now that they were almost getting along with each other.

"You look like crap."

"Thanks," Dennis responded blandly, sliding past him into the apartment.

"No problem." Tom grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge and handed one to Dennis before sitting in an armchair. "So…how goes it?"

"Don't ask."

"Too late."

Dennis sank depressedly into the couch, holding his cold beer bottle to his pounding head.

He popped the cap and took a long drink before answering. "Let's see…I solved the murder of a guy I always despised. Because of that little venture of charity, my car is now a giant ashtray…my apartment's a crime scene…and I feel like my shoulder took a trip through a sewing machine."

"Did you at least get the girl?" Tom asked incredulously, wrinkling his nose at Booker's trail of disasters.

Dennis shook his head. "I thought we had something again…but she's over me." He sipped his beer.

Tom winced for him. "Sucks." He tipped his bottle to his lips.

"I'll live," Dennis grumbled miserably.

Tom gave him a look of mild panic. "Not here, you won't," he rejected, remembering that Booker's apartment was currently unlivable.

"No way, man," Dennis agreed, repulsed at the idea of being roommates with Tom Hanson. "I'll just go back to Teshima's beach house again…or something."

"Yes. Good. Thank you." Tom gestured toward Booker's almost empty bottle. "Another beer?"

Dennis declined. "I think I'm gonna walk this one off." He set the bottle on the coffee table and rose from the couch. "Thanks, man."

"Sure," Tom replied, also getting up. "Hey, uh, Booker…"

Dennis paused, turning around at the door.

Tom poked his hands into his pockets, looking down at his feet a moment. "I, uh…don't think I ever said it before, but…" He finally looked up and held the other man's gaze, all malice absent from his demeanor. "I'm sorry you had to lose your badge. You were an okay cop…for the most part."

Booker shook his head, a forgiving smile on his weary but handsome face. He'd made his peace with that loss long ago. "Damn thing just got in my way all the time, anyway."

Hanson chuckled. "You're so full of crap, man."

Dennis grinned, unoffended. "Just part of my charm."

"Hey." Tom held a hand out toward his former nemesis. "Take care of yourself."

Dennis accepted the handshake. "You, too."

He exited the building, taking the steps back down at a modest pace, figuring he'd circle the block on foot and come back for his bike later.

There was nowhere to go, and all night to get there.

He released a puff of breath into the early evening air, looking up at the stars appearing in the sky as the daylight diminished and nighttime fell over the city.

Up ahead in the parking lot he spotted the silhouette of a person standing beside his bike. His instincts made him glad for the concealed weapon he carried, but as he drew closer he knew there was no need at all for it.

"What are you doing here, Donna?"

She looked up at him in the glow from one of the streetlights, and he could see tear streaks still wet on her face.

"Dennis, I lied to you."

His dark eyebrows knitted in confusion. "What do you mean? When?"

She sniffled. "When I said…that I didn't love you anymore." She wiped a fresh tear from her cheek. "Dennis, I never _stopped_ loving you. I could never figure out how..."

It staggered him, this admission coming from her lips now. His heart wanted to soar, but he kept it in check. He looked at her; not coldly, just silently.

Donna studied his face. "You're gonna make me say it, aren't you?"

"Damn right, I am," he responded softly, his eyes burning into hers.

"Okay." She inhaled a cleansing breath and took hold of his hands. "Dennis," she began with a smile.

"Donna," he said impishly in the same tone.

A soft laugh escaped her throat. Her eyes shined up at him and she continued in a serious voice. "I'm in love with you. I always have been. I always will be."

A smile spread across Dennis' face. "I knew it."

Donna ripped one hand from his grasp and gave him an indignant thump on the chest. "You're supposed to say it back."

"Ow," Dennis complained, rubbing his chest with a laugh. "Damn it, woman."

She gripped the front of his jacket. "Well?"

He pulled her closer at the same time he leaned down. Before their lips touched, he whispered, "You already know I love you."


	19. Epilogue

"Hey, guys." Judy Hoffs joined the gang with a smile on her face. "Look what I found in my mail slot." She dropped a white envelope onto the table in front of her colleagues.

"It's addressed to all of us," Harry Ioki observed, reaching for the envelope.

"What is it?" Doug asked.

"An invitation." Harry read aloud from the thick white paper inside. "You are cordially invited to the wedding of Dennis J. Booker and Donna C. Ferris…"

"Aww, he's taking the plunge," Doug commented with a grin.

A half-smile also graced Tom's face. Dennis got the girl after all.

"Good for him," Tom said quietly, genuinely happy for the man he finally considered to be his friend.


End file.
